


Somewhere between Waterloo and Westminster

by NorthernRose



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Absolutely no plot, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dany is mentioned but barely, F/M, I'm not saying this relationship is healthy...because it's not, Implied Sexual Content, Is Jon Snow an idiot?, Jon Snow and the Starks Are Not Related, Mild Sexual Content, POV Sansa Stark, Secret Relationship, Sexual Tension, Short One Shot, its rains in London...the shock, probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:55:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23024386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthernRose/pseuds/NorthernRose
Summary: Any old Londoner worth their salt will say the Thames is London’s life blood, winding its way through the city like a vein to a heart. These days she can’t even look at her own cities river without her mind coming back to Jon.He’s her Thames now. A cities life blood. A vein to a heart. Somewhere between Waterloo and Westminster.*She loathes being ignored by him. She despises his excuses. But she'll forgive him, she always will. He'll find his way back to her, he always does.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 29
Kudos: 67





	Somewhere between Waterloo and Westminster

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little ditty, to tide me over.  
> Idea from no where... although there is little idea here, just a little tinkling.  
> Enjoy, dear hearts.

Even where she stands now, hair wind blown and curling at the ends from the drizzle in the air, staring out across the stone embankment… she thinks of him. Grey and stark and the exact colour and shade of his eyes, the water of the Thames ebbs fiercely after a rainstorm below her, somewhere between Waterloo and Westminster.

Any old Londoner worth their salt will say the Thames is London’s life blood, winding its way through the city like a vein to a heart. These days she can’t even look at her own cities river without her mind coming back to Jon.

He’s her Thames now. A cities life blood. A vein to a heart. Somewhere between Waterloo and Westminster.

February’s seem warmer these days, but still she pulls her mac tighter at the waist. It’s vintage, Burberry of course, and despite her Masters and having a mortgage in London at twenty-seven, finding that mac in a dusty vintage shop near Spitalfields Market is still considered one of her greatest achievements. Jon likes it too, he told her one night, whispered in her ear that he’d imagined her wearing nothing underneath it when he pressed her against the wall outside some grotty pub south of the river.

It’s a cliché, but they’re a walking cliché of sorts and she’s always allowed him his little fantasies.

It’s just another one of their secrets. They thrive on their secrets. They think nothing of a clandestine murmuring between one another, its nothing new to them, they have too many to count now. But never with one another, she hopes at least.

In hindsight, that’s how all this started. Stolen glances across the table as teenagers when Robb first dragged him home from Rugby. Ignoring one another for years till the first night. It was a normal-no-nonsense kind of night, she remembers there being a summer rain, clouding a hazy evening in Greenwich with the smell a of metallic August downpour. It was a normal evening, friends soon dispersing come closing time at some inconsequential watering hole named after some Lord Admiral who has done something special for a King once upon a time. They’d been making eyes at one another all night before finally coming together like magnets after sharing a taxi that only managed one stop on the way.

That night he’d been the first man to ever make her come. She was twenty-one at the time. Others have had the honour since, but she cannot stop the fox like grin from quirking on her lips at the memory sinking into a tangle of floral sheets after he was finished with her.

The next morning he’d said it had been a mistake. She’d listened from her position against the headboard, sheet pulled up underneath her arms as he paced her bedroom, listing all the reasons why it was a mistake in that noble way that was so irritatingly true of Jon Snow. He couldn’t jeopardise his relationship with Robb if something went wrong. He’d earned his place at her father’s firm and didn’t want anyone to think anymore that they already did about his relationship with the Starks. She was like family to him. Her mother despised him.

Blah. Blah. Blah.

It was all rather annoying, that these people – most of whom were men she might add – somehow had a say in who she got to invite into her bed, or kitchen table, or the wall beside the front door.

She let him get it out of his system. He said it was a one off. She said she believed him. They both lied.

It wasn’t even nearly the last time.

They’ve never been in a relationship, not _together-together_ in the typical sense. Not even close. They fuck every now and then when they cross paths. They don’t plan it, they don’t arrange it, its all by happenstance, normally when sweet and unsuspected Robb cajoles Jon along on some night out. There is normally always whiskey and gin involved marking the heady haze of sin on their lips. Its passionate and untamed, words not many people would associate with either of them, but Jon Snow has taught her more about pleasure than any other person, but its all very casual, all very unorganised.

That’s why this afternoon is so unusual. Jon doesn’t contact her. He certainly doesn’t text her asking him to meet him near a pretty mock Tudor pub on the water’s edge, somewhere between Waterloo and Westminster. If it was summertime the façade would be covered in hanging baskets, petunias and lobelia swinging lazily in the air, but it’s not. Its February and the air is damp and chills her cheeks. The Thames is grey, just like Jon’s eyes.

She doesn’t know why she’s come. She hasn’t spoken to him directly in nine months give or take. He’s been dating someone, well, she thinks he still is. She wouldn’t know. He stopped talking to her the first time he came to the pub near Robb’s flat with his new beau. Sansa wasn’t expected to be there, but Robb had bullied her into it. Her attendance rattled him, grey eyes dark and brow furrowed as his new lovely one hung on his arm. The beau, or Dany, as Robb introduced was lovely. Her existence wasn’t what pissed her off. Jon acting like she no longer walked England’s green and gentle lands was what miffed her so much.

It was rude, and if there was one thing Sansa Stark hated, it was fucking impoliteness.

Jon could do what he liked. She didn’t date, she was too busy and too disenchanted with the whole notion, but that didn’t mean Jon couldn’t, she just didn’t realise it meant their friendship had to end.

Robb had even noticed it, as oblivious as he normally is, dear thing. Jon no longer spoke with her or laughed at her expense when they teased her. If she arrived somewhere, he would soon make his excuses and leave.

He had a girlfriend and that was fine. She didn’t plan on trying to seduce him. It was casual, it always had been, months could go by without them seeing one another. She knew the score. He didn’t want her in any permanent way, he’d made his reasons clear but for some reason unbeknownst to her, he never could resist.

The forbidden fruit always was the sweetest.

Sansa had never truly believed his excuses either. They were well matched, she often thinks it wouldn’t be a complete disaster if they made a real go of it. He makes her laugh. He makes her smile. He’s never been one to care for what others think, but she happily let him use Robb and her father and blah-blah-blah as excuses all those years ago and she never argued with him on it.

She taps her heeled boot on the pavement as she lingers by the river. She is far too annoyed with his perfectly irritating face to ignore his request, which had been frustratingly polite and laced with manners he had withheld from her for the past nine months. She is a glutton for punishment. Only someone as unflappable and poised as Sansa Stark would honour the invitation of someone who has disregarded her for much of the last year. Arya would call bullshit on such behaviour, but then again, she had always been the Lilibet to her Margaret-Rose.

So, she waits him out on the stone pavement, pulling her mac tighter than her little waist will allow on a drizzly February afternoon, somewhere between Waterloo and Westminster.

He’s one minute late. She’ll give him till five past.

Staring out at the river her mind wanders to the last night they had spent together. She’s secure enough in herself to admit she uses memories of that early summer evening often when she’s in the mood for some alone time. He’d been delicious and frantic in his need to have her. She liked Jon Snow always, but she liked him most when his head was between her legs. The delectable man. She liked his filthy mouth too, whispering explicit endearments and declarations into her ear, but that goes without saying.

“Sansa.”

She’s half thankful for his sudden appearance, save she start salivating at the memories of him calling her his _good girl_ as he had taken her with her hands pinned above her head on the hardwood floor in her sitting room, she’d had the bruises for days, and half cursing him for interrupting such a lovely visage.

Well, she better get this over with. She turns from the water’s edge, where the Thames pounds away coast bound to meet the river-grey eyes of Jon Snow. Delicious. Life blood. Vein to a heart.

The minute she meets his eyes, crisp and stern and unyielding, she knows she’s half forgiven him already. He need not even explain really. He’d had a girlfriend, so he’d chosen to ignore her. He never had been the bravest. She’d bet her prized mac and mortgage on that, she can tell from the way he rakes over her form, he’s only ever so brazen when he’s desperate for her. He can’t be sorry that Dany the Beau is no more. He’s sorry too, she’ll make him say so later, but she can tell. The reason for such treatment is quite obvious from the look he gives her. Who knew the colour grey could burn?

He wants her. Always has. Always will.

She’ll forgive him.

She knows they will be in bed together again come midnight.

You often here twenty somethings talking about how someone fucked the life out of them. Jon and Sansa are different. They fuck the life into one another, and she loves it.

“Hello, Jon. There better at least be a gin and tonic in this for me,” she smarts, arms crossed and voice haughty and she knows she has him.

His eyes flick from her ocean eyes to her lips to her Burberry mac and back again.

“Always, come on, lets talk,” he murmurs softly, in that husky and deep little drawl of his that she’s always been weak for. He quirks his head behind him as he turns and waits for her to join his side so they can head to that mock Tudor pub, with her hand nestled in the crux of his elbow, somewhere between Waterloo and Westminster.


End file.
